


Coach

by Scrunchles



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Football, American Football, Coach/Player Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Kinda, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, uhhhhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 01:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14461833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/pseuds/Scrunchles
Summary: Jamie can't keep his mouth shut.  It could get Coach Rutledge fired.  Maybe.  Until then, there's this.





	Coach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [one_irradiated_muppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_irradiated_muppet/gifts).



> This is Muppet's reward for April! Thanks for your support :)

The sky is blue with white wisps streaking across it. Jamie can feel his heartbeat in his ears, his blood rushing through him in a desperate bid for oxygen.  

A bottle of water hits the grass beside his arm.  “Get up and run,” Coach Rutledge growls.

Jamie grins and his throat feels raw when he laughs. “Been running,” he points out, grabbing the water bottle and popping it open.  He squeezes water through the laced metal of his helmet, first on his flushed face and then into his mouth.  It tastes heavenly. 

Rutledge grabs the bottle from him and Jamie lets out a whine.  “C’mon, coach.  It was just a joke!  All the guys laughed, why am I the only one who had to do extra drills?”

“ _You’re_ the one who made a shitty sex-with-the-coach joke in a _public interview_ ,” Coach Rutledge snaps.  “It could have cost me my job you little prick.” 

Jamie lets out a giggle and shifts his weary, sore body to try and ease the aches of overworked muscles.  His shoulder pads and helmet get in the way of him really stretching his neck out, but pointing his toes and arching his back makes him feel like he can go for another round of suicides.

Jamie crawls to his feet and stretches out his shoulders.  “Not like it was wrong,” Jamie points out before the whistle screeches.  He laughs, then starts running again.  End zone to ten yards, end zone to twenty, end zone to thirty.  Once he’s hit the fifty and reduced to a weary jog back, the whistle blows and he flops into the grass again, gasping for breath.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie pants.

“For what?” Rutledge growls.

“Shouldn’t’a said… the thing,” Jamie finally gets out.

“What thing?” 

Jamie makes a strangled noise and takes a deep, chest aching breath.  “I shouldn’t’a said motorboatin’ your tits was the key to winnin’ games’,”Jamie admits.  When Rutledge stares at him expectantly, he adds, “Not on local telly, anyway.”  Still staring.  “No matter how true it is?”

Coach Rutledge sighs heavily and Jamie grins before unbuckling his helmet and shoving it up off of his face.  “That good enough to stop running and take a… uh… _cooldown_?” Jamie asks, wiggling his eyebrows and attempting to stretch suggestively.  Even with the pads on, he’s lean and broad-shouldered and he can see Coach Rutledge’s eyes linger where his jersey inches up his belly.

Lecherous old man.  

Jamie can’t wait to get back into the locker rooms and fuck him.  He holds his hand up with as charming a smile as he can muster and Coach Rutledge yanks him to his feet with barely any effort.  Jamie leans in for a kiss, but Rutledge shoves him away and starts walking back toward the locker rooms.

Jamie grabs his helmet before following after, grinning the whole while.  He’s gonna get laid, he can feel it.

When Jamie enters the locker room, Coach Rutledge is in his office, and a few of his teammates are still lingering around the showers.  Jamie grins and waves at them as he tosses his helmet into his uniform locker.  They wave back and one asks if he can feel his legs.

“So far!” he returns.

“Fawkes!” Coach Rutledge barks.

Jamie runs his hands through his sweat-slick hair and winks at them.  “Not for long,” he says.

They laugh because they think it’s a joke.

“The rest of you fucking go home!” Rutledge snaps, glaring at them through the windows of his office.

Jamie closes the door of the office behind him, dampening the chorus of “yes sir”s and one “aw, I wanted to watch him get reamed.”

Coach Rutledge stands from his office chair and begins lowering the blinds one by one while Jamie stands at the door and trembles with muscle fatigue and expectation.  When Coach Rutledge reaches him, he rests a hand on his chest and then shoves him back against the door.  

Jamie laughs and grabs the hem of his jersey, but Coach Rutledge knocks his hands away and presses against him, his gut making it difficult for Jamie to strain up toward his lips, but he manages to get a smooch in before Coach Rutledge starts stripping him out of his gear.  He drags the jersey up over Jamie’s head and then pulls away to undo the straps on his shoulder pads.

Jamie relaxes against the door, waiting until his gear clacks to the ground and Coach Rutledge has pulled his under armor off before wrapping his arms around Rutledge’s neck.  He drags himself up to kiss his coach deeply, grinding against the inside of his cup and whining when he realizes that he forgot it before jumping Coach Rutledge.

“Forgot the cup again,” Rutledge teases him, wedging his hand down between his thigh and Jamie’s crotch.  He pushes his palm against the cup, but no matter how Jamie arches and grinds, he doesn’t get more than the barest satisfaction.

“Get my pants off,” Jamie demands.  “I need…” he cuts off with a strangled whine when Rutledge’s fingers slide back past the jock and cup to press between his asscheeks.

Jamie bites Coach Rutledge’s lip and thrusts against his fingers.  “C’mon,” he groans.  

“Call me ‘Coach,’ ” Rutledge growls.

“Coach, please…” Jamie begs as the finger continues to tease him through his pants.  “Please get the cup off.  I wanna come.” His muscles ache with the previous strain of practice and the current spasms of primal need as he grinds desperately against the older man.

“That’s the problem with kids like you,” Rutledge says.  He stops teasing Jamie and finally unlaces his pants.  “You don’t know how to slow down for foreplay.”

“Just went through three goddamned hours of foreplay,” Jamie pants, his fingers digging into Coach Rutledge’s thick neck.  “Do this, do that, smackin’ my ass when I do good…” Jamie kisses Rutledge and then sucks on his bottom lip as the cup is finally shifted out of the way and clatters to the floor.  Rutledge palms Jamie through his jock, ripping a moan from him.

“Yeah…” Jamie pants, thrusting his hips forward.  “C’mon…” he groans, clenching his eyes tightly and leaning his head back against the door as Coach Rutledge finally slips his hand beneath the elastic band of the jockstrap and takes Jamie in his hand. 

Jamie’s thigh slips between the coach’s legs and he rubs it up against the thick bulge filling out Coach Rutledge’s shorts.  “Shoulda told them the key to winning was a big helping of sausage after each practice…” he teases.  “A nice fat sausage and some… ngh…” he can’t continue his terrible joke because Rutledge’s thumb presses up against his head and the coach’s entire hand squeezes as it drags from Jamie’s base to his tip.  “Coach…” Jamie groans, thrusting his hips harder, his nails biting into Coach Rutledge’s skin.  The hand around him pumps faster the more he says the word.  “Coach…” Jamie whines.  “Coach, Coach…”

He comes in several desperate spurts and continues to cling to Coach Rutledge.  The older man kisses him deeply, still pressing him against the door with his body. 

When Coach Rutledge sets him down, his legs shake before stilling.  “On the desk,” Rutledge says, running a rough hand through Jamie’s hair before beginning to push his own athletic shorts down.

Jamie watches until the coach’s cock spills over the band of the shorts.  He stumbles forward, away from the desk, his eyes locked on the leaking tip, eager for a taste.  Coach Rutledge reaches out and shoves him back toward the desk, though.

“Face down, ass up, Fawkes,” he tells him.

Jamie pouts and glances back at the desk before grinning and sweeping his arm across it to clear space for him to lie.  Coach Rutledge rolls his eyes and walks over once Jamie turns around and bends forward.  

Coach Rutledge pulls his uniform pants down and makes a noise deep in his throat. 

“Like what you see?” Jamie asks.

Rutledge pops one of the straps of Jamie’s jock and then spreads his cheeks to tease Jamie’s hole with his thumb.  “Like it well enough,” the coach says, but his voice is low and distracted enough that Jamie knows he’s _very interested_ in the ass before him.

“Fuck me, then,” Jamie says.  He looks up and sees a spare whistle that didn’t get knocked off the desk and grabs it.  He blows it once. Then again when Coach Rutledge teases his ass.  “C’mon, _Coach_ ,” Jamie begs around the whistle, spreading his legs eagerly.  “Fuck me, Coach.” He blows it again before Rutledge grabs the whistle and tosses it onto the floor.

“You’re being too loud,” he tells him.  Coach Rutledge reaches past Jamie’s hip to pull lube out of his desk drawer and squeezes it cold and slick against his hole.  

“Ngh… I’ll be… real quiet then…” Jamie mumbles as Coach Rutledge works him open.

“... still call me ‘Coach,’ “ Rutledge rumbles.

Jamie grins and lurches back against the fingers teasing his hole.  “Right then… _Coach_ ,” Jamie says, groaning the last word.


End file.
